Sexting Between Jordan and Ari


“Hi,” Ari’s text appeared in her WhatsApp window.

“Hi, ☺ Fell asleep in the garden thinking of you, how are you?” she texted back.

“Finished with morning rehearsal. Building shelves in the study.”

A saddened Jordan suspected that he missed his family home, where his children lived without him. But she imagined him shirtless, drill in hand, plaster dust particles swirling around him in the morning light, his muscles straining. Her heart beat faster.

“Are you okay?” she asked, feeling the burden of the empty shelves in the empty apartment.

“Keeping busy,” he texted.

“How was your rehearsal?”

“Better than yesterday,” Ari said.

“That’s great,” she wrote back, and added another smiley. “I miss you.”

“Me too,” he wrote. “I think of your hands caressing me.”

“Lots of caressing waiting for you when you come back.” Ari knows how to cheer himself up, she thought. He focuses on the positive, on what he’s doing, on the good things to come. And then, she wrote, “I miss your hands, too.” She imagined his hands, big and strong and sensuous, more knowing than any that had ever touched her. She thought of his long menu of touches, from fluttering butterflies that landed and danced, to hungry lions that pounced and devoured. From ticklish caterpillars that wriggled slowly, to finicky kittens that bumped exuberantly. His hands told innumerable stories, took her body on imaginary voyages. His hands knew how to fill her with fantasy, with excitement.

“Where exactly do you miss them?” he asked.

“It’s a very long list.” Jordan felt his hands on her face, caressing her gently. She felt them reach into her hair and then behind her neck, holding her head, nestling it. A smile pulled her cheeks up, her skin tingled. Ari’s hands knew how to soothe her pain, give her patience to wait for his return. She felt his hands traveling down, across her stomach, and then heading south, to the valley between her legs. She felt them waking her body, exciting it, making her blood heat and run faster in her veins.

“I’m looking at your beautiful face now,” he wrote back, “I want you to do the same.”

“Yes, Sir,” she smiled. “You XL piece of sweet caramel candy! I wish I could be there to help you with the shelves.”

“Me, too. You can hold, while I drill. Give me a hand?”

Jordan’s smile deepened. She was ready to play.

“I have a hand for you. Where do you want it?”

“Several ideas, but want to hear yours.”

“On the shelf,” she wrote.

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I’m warming up,” she answered.

“Don’t want you to hurt yourself, sharp things around here,” he warned.

“You want me to move my hand to a softer place instead?” she asked.

“Not so soft,” he said. “Can you feel it?”

“Yes!” she wrote. “Getting harder.”

“Whenever you touch me!” he wrote.

“And kiss you,” she added, imagining Ari’s luscious lips, his kisses that made her head spin, hypnotized her as if he had magic potion in his mouth.

“Especially when you kiss me,” he said.

“My garden is getting warmer,” she wrote. “There, too?”

“Very. Took off my shirt,” he texted. “Take off yours.”

Jordan unbuttoned her dress with one hand and pulled up her bra, letting the night air caress her breasts, the half-moon wash it with pale light. On a moment’s decision she turned on her phone camera. Her skin looked smooth, metallic. Thank you, Ari, for making me feel so beautiful, she thought and took a picture of her breasts and waist. She took a deep breath, then pressed ‘send’.

“Wow! Good girl,” was his response.

Jordan flooded with pride. “Thank you.”

“Now hold the shelf.”

“And your drill?” she wrote back, “Where is it?”

A moment later a picture of his sensuous arm arrived, and his strong hand wrapped around a big, yellow power drill, fitted with a long, thick bit.

“Changed bits for you,” he wrote.

“Just the right one!” she wrote. The soft breeze felt delicious on her hot skin as she imagined Ari’s long, agile fingers stroking her, making music on her, reaching deep inside her from across the ocean. Her hand caressed her breasts, made her nipples hard, released short breaths out of her open mouth.

“You need your work belt. Is it on?”

“Sure is,” he wrote.

“Show me!” she demanded.

“Just the belt?” he teased.

“NO!!” she wrote back. “On you! Sweaty and dirty. Aren’t you working?”

A moment later her phone made its ding noise, and a second picture arrived. Ari’s muscular torso glistening with sweat, the zipper of his pants slightly open, and on top, the belt. Heavy yellow canvas weighed down by an assortment of hand tools.


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